And Life Goes On
by ArtisticGallifreyan
Summary: It's been three years since Sherlock's fateful fall off the roof of St. Bart's and the night before Sherlock left to dismantle Moriarty's web, the two shared an unexpected display of human needs. A surprise in the form of Xavier Sherlock Hooper results, but how will Sherlock react to the news upon his return to London life? - Post-Reichenbach Falls - Sherlolly, ParentLock


**A/N: Just a little side project I felt like writing. It's post-Reichenbach Falls, however I've decided to set the Hiatus at three years instead of two (just to more accurately line up gestation time + the child's age). **

**Please Review if possible! And also if you have a chance, please check out my more recent FanFics as well! Enjoy!**

**From your friendly neighborhood Aussie ^_^**

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"He's being a good then?" Molly had the phone forcibly wedged between her shoulder and her ear as she flipped through the ominous pile of paperwork that seemed to tower over her with every finalized report. It was her understanding that piles were meant to get _smaller _as she trudged through her work, not bigger; but alas, it wasn't as if the corpses were going to do the work for her. Not to mention, with newfound responsibilities being thrown on her plate in recent years, the speed at which she could actually produce reports had been slightly… Diminished, to say the least.

"He _what_?" Exhaling out of nothing but pure, sheer frustration, Molly reached out across her desk to nab a nearby stapler, but nearly caused her office-chair to slip out from underneath her. Thankfully though, she managed to save any and all dignity by clutching the edge of the desk with both hands, and digging her phone painfully against her ear to prevent it from falling. She'd already had one shattered screen this month (through no fault of her own); she didn't plan on sending another away for repairs.

"But he's only _two years_ old!"

"Right. Right… Okay. What did he say?"

A hand went straight to her forehead, which heavily dragged down her face. "Are you _sure_?"

"But Lisa, he's _two_!"

"Okay… I'll talk to him. I'll _talk_ to a toddler and try to 'reason' with him. Okay, okay… Bye."

Two years old. Her son was only _two_, and he had managed to intellectually offend one of the workers running the 'Sunshine' room at the local childcare center, essentially putting her in tears which led to the rather colorful phone call Molly had just received from the 'Teddy Bear Childcare Centre', informing her of her son's 'frequent bouts of disobedience'. Oh how that boy could be a terror, but not in the way one would expect from a normal, tantrum-laden two-year-old boy.

He was every bit his father's son; be it by looks or by quirky little mannerisms that Molly quite often recognized when the tot attempted to construct simple sentences, but still well beyond his years. He would often argue, but quite often his weapon of choice was his reasoning, and reasoning with a toddler could quite often be the most _frustrating _thing of all. And Molly was ashamed to admit that this 'notice' being issued by the childcare center certainly hadn't been the first, and wouldn't be the last. If her son wanted the last word, he _would_ have his way. If he wanted to make a point, or merely refuse to do what his temporary guardians beckoned for him to do, he _would_ do it.

And who could be blamed for this?

Sherlock Holmes.

Mind you, Molly didn't blame Sherlock for her son's rather unexpected arrival; if anything, she was purely thankful for it. Having Toby the cat in her life was one thing, but a human being to take total responsibility for… It was an eye-opener, an experience she would never take back if given the chance. Ever since the day she had given birth to Xavier Sherlock Hooper just a little over two years ago, life had changed, but for the better.

No longer was she the crazy 'cat' pathologist who had spent the better part of her days pining over the most asexual man in London, but she was now something better; a mother. A mother to a very rambunctious but _highly_ intelligent little boy who lightened up her day, no matter how draining he could generally be.

_Which tended to be quite often._

Granted though; Molly had never quite imagined her life to turn out the way it had. Being in her early thirties, her mother had quite often been putting the pressure on Molly to find a man and settle down; with her 'biological' clock ticking slower and slower, of course. Upon every visit for a Sunday morning tea, she was no stranger to hearing the words "Honestly Moll's, you're not a bad looking girl. If you just _tried_ to find a decent man and settle down, you'll be better for it!" _or_ "In my time of life, I'd like to see at least _one_ grandchild." Fortunately for her mum, it wasn't before long that Xavier came unexpectedly into their lives; and Molly's mother was absolutely delighted.

What she _wasn't _delighted about, however, was Molly's unfavorable 'status' of being labeled as a single mother. Better still, a single mother who refused to offer up the identity of the boy's father, only detailing that he was 'a brief mistake'.

After all, it wasn't as though she could comfortably disclose the fact that Sherlock Holmes was indeed the boy's father. It wasn't as though she could openly discuss the events leading up to his conception (which weren't honestly that eventful), and it was absolutely out of the question to even _entertain _the idea that Sherlock (upon his eventual return) would even _consider_ becoming involved in Xavier's life upon the discovery of his newfound fatherhood. Needless to say, the 'event' resulting in Xavier was extremely unanticipated; a night that Molly never truly saw coming, but she remembered it well…

It had been the night following Sherlock's suicide façade, and being a close confidant and a key player in the plan to thwart Moriarty and his goons, she had loosely offered up the safety of her flat for as long as he needed; at least, until his departure to dismantle Moriaty's extensive criminal web. And at first, everything was _fine_; he was safely transported to her flat without so much as a single sighting, he was able to have a warm shower, a hot meal and a soft bed to sleep on and he was able to withdraw the scent of London one final time… And while under any other circumstance she would have absolutely been head over heels with Sherlock present in the comforts of her own flat, it was almost at that point when every ounce of truth and realization suddenly hit her at once; she had been a complete and utter fool. After all, even though she had indeed been the 'one who counted', he never truly _felt_ anything for her… Not like she had for him.

But surprisingly, at that moment she was suddenly okay about it. So what evolved from sharing a pathetically home-cooked meal and a cheap bottle of wine together at her rickety little table with the world-famous consulting detective _somehow_ evolved to a 'session' in the bedroom (to this day, Molly struggled to recall the details), but needless to say… Whatever happened was 'enough' to bring Xavier into the world. The one thing she could confidently recall though, was waking up with a hurried note that had been scribbled on a post-it and left on her beside table that said:

_**Thank you, Molly Hooper.**_

_**You were the one who counted.**_

She could remember feeling hurt, confused, angry, elated, disgusted and thrilled; a dangerously turbulent cocktail of emotions that appeared to swirl with each passing second. On one hand, she felt entirely disappointed in herself, considering that she almost felt _liberated_ from continuously and hopelessly pining for the man, but on the other hand… She bedded him. Well, he bedded her, but either way the whole thing had been entirely consensual. The fact of the matter was, they '_did_' the deed; they shared an act that two adults were easily capable of doing and he left in the early hours of the morning without not so much as a verbal 'thanks'. But Molly often thought; did she even have the right to be angry? She _knew_ what he was like, and she _knew_ he had to leave, and it wasn't as though they were in anything that could even 'resemble' a relationship, much less a friendship.

_It doesn't matter._

_I was a fool to get in bed with him; simple. _

That was well over two years ago; and nine months from that night, Xavier made an appearance in the world. Molly was simply in awe from the moment she laid eyes on him; whether it was his gorgeous ivory skin or those mystical blue and green-flecked hues, or his little Hooper nose and those trademark Molly lips, he was _perfect_. But the one prominent Holmes characteristic at the moment of his birth was that thick mop of black hair upon his head; already starting to dance it's way into subtle curls. Fortunately for Molly however, anyone who knew Sherlock didn't quite have the insight to pick up on the fact that she had Sherlock's son; John had been currently emotionally shattered from Sherlock's 'death', Mrs. Hudson knew none-the-wiser, child identification wasn't quite Lestrade's division, and Mycroft… Well, he never visited. So it was fair to say that he either had _no_ idea regarding Xavier's birth (Mycroft and Molly weren't really affiliated, to say the least), or… Given his extensive range of surveillance, he had been aware of Sherlock spending the night at Molly's, had somehow put the coincidental timing together but had voluntarily chosen not to be involved.

Either way, not having Brother Holmes metaphorically breathing down her neck was an absolute godsend. She often _did_ wonder though; did Mycroft know? He hadn't seen Xavier but… He often saw most of London without doing the unnecessary legwork. The thought made her shudder, but it wasn't the only thought that bothered her.

Nearing the three-year mark, Sherlock _had_ been gone for a fair amount of time; but it was fair to say that he could return at any moment. Molly wasn't totally adverse to the idea of Xavier one day knowing who his father _really_ was, but the thought of Sherlock finding out himself… It made her cringe. Adding to that the fact that he might possibly make her feel _guilty_ for choosing to carry out the pregnancy instead of termination… She couldn't bear to carry the thought. But when he did return, what would she say? All he had to do was take one look at her son (_their_ son), and he wouldn't even need his deductive powers to ascertain the boy's lineage.

Just one look, that's all it would take.

_Just one._

The sudden shrill ringtone of her phone pierced the air and broke her train of thought. "Oh… Bollocks! Xavier!" Molly Hooper jolted from her trance-like state, only to realize that she'd shifted to a standing position, but had been aimlessly leaning against her desk as she reminisced. However, it appeared as though her most recent 'mum moment' had allowed a good fifteen minutes to tick over, and she had to pick him fairly soon. Any later, and the poor childcare workers would likely be ripping out their hair in clumps. "Oh…" Her eyes hovered over the mountain of paperwork that hadn't effectively shrunk for the duration of this shift, but her sympathies fell back on the childcare center.

Leaving her desk in shambles (She'd be hearing from Mike Stamford later), it wasn't long until she found her way to the locker room where she hastily discarded her lab coat, snatched her bag and did a quick check to make sure all the necessities hadn't slipped out on the locker-floor, as they usually did. However, as Molly's eyes fell on the mirror, her heart came dangerously slow to stopping and the mousy pathologist had to do a double take when she saw him.

_His reflection._

_He's behind me._

_It… It can't be._

She spun around quick enough to give her head a head spin of it's own, only to confirm her fears as she came face to face with the ghost that had been haunting her memories; the father of her child. Her jaw went slightly slack and her mouth held marginally agape but Molly Hooper was at a total loss at what to say. She was aware she likely _looked_ to be a mess; sans makeup, her hair pulled back into a messy ponytail and bags under her eyes from constant sleep deprivation, but Sherlock looked… The same.

Three years, and he looked _the bloody same_. Give or take a few subtle hints of a fading tan from his foreign travels.

"Hello, Molly Hooper."


End file.
